


Flesh Eating Acid Spiders

by CreeperEyes



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Gen, Uninvited Guests, flesh eating acid spiders, making fun of anti-maskers and Covid deniers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27229567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreeperEyes/pseuds/CreeperEyes
Summary: A very bizarre threat is descending upon Springfield: acid spitting, flesh eating arachnids.The Simpsons seek refuge in Herman's bomb shelter. He lets them in but asks them to keep it a secret.Problem is, the secret doesn't last even five minutes and before long, everyone else in Springfield wants in. For someone who just wants to be alone, sharing a bunker with a hundred other people is the definition of hell. Tensions rise and things escalate. After all, no one can provoke an angry mob like Homer Simpson.Serious plot, silly story. Lynch mobs, rocket launchers, aliens and mecha-hounds, oh my!
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BitchinBetty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BitchinBetty/gifts).



> 2020 has been insane, and I never in a million years thought I'd write a fic inspired by Covid-19, but here we are. Once I got the idea for this I had to write it. Obviously I didn't want to write about something as real and serious as Covid, so instead I went with the stupidest, most absurd thing I could think of. Hence the flesh eating acid spider threat. And why not? It is the spookiest time of the year. Halloween is nearly upon us.

Another knock on the door. More voices.

“Dad, you just hit and destroyed his car. He’s not going to let us in.”

The pounding got louder, and the irritated voice of Homer Simpson sliced through the air.

“I know you’re in there, jackass! Open up!”

“Homer! Be nice. Insulting him won’t get us anywhere. If anything, he’ll probably send drones after us. The bad kind.” Marge spoke up.

“Marge, I see him in there. He’s hiding behind that doorway.”

Inside the building, Herman cursed to himself and retreated further into the other room. Of all the bomb shelters to buy, he had to choose the one with the huge bullet and explosion proof window on the front. Anyone walking by could see inside. He hadn’t thought about it then but was kicking himself for it now. Why couldn’t the Simpsons just go away? This was his bomb shelter. Sure, it was big enough to accommodate one hundred people and was stocked with enough food and bottled water to last years, but he’d never planned on sharing it with anybody. He was hunkered down and protected from the rapidly approaching threat that would ravage the city in mere hours.

Flesh eating acid spiders.

They were coming. The news told him so, and the news never lied. Hoards of acid spitting flesh eating spiders were heading towards Springfield. Soon they would descend upon the city, seeking victims to devour. It was on every station, and the entire city was in a panic. Terrified citizens were stockpiling food and barricading themselves in their homes out of fear, except for those ignorant flesh eating acid spider deniers who claimed it was fake news made up by the government. Those people strolled about outside without a care, and they were the ones who would be dissolved and eaten. The spiders would get them.

They wouldn’t get Herman though. Nothing was getting into his bunker. Not terrorists, not radiation, not zombies and especially not flesh eating acid spiders.

The Simpsons would be tougher to keep out. 

“I can knock all day. You’ve got to answer the door sometime!” Homer called out.

Bart piped up next. “I used to think you were cool, but you’re even lamer than my sister! And she’s the queen of lame!”

“Bart, quit it! I’m not lame!” Lisa shouted at him.

“Stop it, both of you! This is not the time!” Marge nagged at them.

The knocking got faster and louder. Hoping the Simpsons would give up was too much to ask for. They weren’t going anywhere, and the knocking was getting extremely annoying. Homer would stand out there and pound on the door until his knuckles wore down to bone.

Fuck it. Letting five people in wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Herman hesitantly got up and opened the door. Homer and Bart didn’t wait for an invitation, they shot inside the second they were able. Marge looked a little humiliated.

“I’m really sorry about this,” she started. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but no one knows how long this pandemic will last, and we don’t have enough food. By the time I got to the store, the only food left was things nobody wants, like Brussels sprouts and pickled herring. I’m willing to do just about anything for my family, but not _that_.”

Herman leaned out of the doorway and cautiously glanced around. No threats detected.

“Were you followed?” he asked.

“For once, no.” Lisa said.

“Alright, come in. But this needs to stay a secret. There’s no telling who might be watching.”

“Thank you. We really appreciate this.” Marge picked up Maggie and headed inside with Lisa in tow. The door shut behind them.

“Marge, check this place out! Look at all this stuff!” Homer was aghast.

While plain and spartan on the outside, the interior of the bunker was packed with amenities. It was divided into several rooms, each offering forms of entertainment. A computer with high speed internet (including dark net access), a smart tv with a dozen different streaming services, and a variety of physical items ranging from a pool table to a shelf crammed with hundreds of books. A fully stocked alcohol cabinet sat in the corner of the rearmost room. Tucked away in the underground section of the bunker was a weapons locker housing all sorts of firearms, even a rocket launcher. If the day ever came that Herman had to spend years cooped up inside his bomb shelter, he didn’t want to be bored. Boredom wasn’t an option, so he’d prepared for that too.

Homer approached him. “How come you didn’t want to let us in? I thought we were pals.”

“We are. It’s nothing personal Homer. Think of it this way. Say you have a pizza. Not that cheap frozen shit, either. A really good pizza. If-”

“Mmmm....pizza,” Homer gave a dopey smile and drooled on himself.

Herman rolled his eyes. “As I was saying. You’ve got a really good pizza and all you want is to eat it in peace, when suddenly people you don’t know crowd around you and start asking for a slice. You’re worried that some of those people might try to rip you off or throw the slice back in your face. If you don’t share, people will think you’re a douche. No big deal. But if you give one person a slice and tell everyone else to fuck off, you’re suddenly the douche that plays favorites. Believe me, _nobody_ wants to be that guy. Make sense?”

“I understand.” Lisa said. “I won’t tell anyone we’re here. As an eight year old girl, I’m sworn to secrecy. So don’t worry. This secret will die with me. But I will write about it in my diary.”

“Which I’m currently reading.” Bart said smugly. He held a pastel pink journal adorned with glittery unicorn stickers. The words ‘Lisa’s diary’ were written across the front in neat handwriting. “Hey, what’s this? No way! Lisa held hands with Ralph Wiggum on the playground! What other spicy stuff is in here?”

“Bart, give that back!” Lisa wailed.

Bart sprinted across the room, held the diary up high and taunted his sister. “Lisa has a boyfriend! Lisa has a boyfriend!”

Granting the Simpsons access to the bunker was the morally right thing to do, but it was already proving to be a mistake. Herman liked them, especially Bart, but lacked the patience to deal with squabbling siblings. What if the worse case scenario came into play and they had to live with him for years?

A knock on the door snapped him out of his thoughts. He glared at Homer. So much for secrecy. Less than five minutes and that man had already spilled the beans.

Homer chuckled nervously. “Hey Herman, on a scale of one to ten, how mad would you be if I said I texted Moe and asked him to come over?”

Herman sighed. He didn’t want more guests, but he also didn’t want to be remembered as the douche that played favorites. Plus, Moe was probably the closest thing he had to an actual friend. He could come in. What harm could it do?

He strode over to the bunker’s entrance and opened the door. Three figures and several large blue coolers greeted him.

“Nice place you got here. This’ll keep the flesh eating acid spiders out for sure. As long as you’ll have us, of course. I do have _some_ manners. Oh, and I brought Lenny and Carl with me. You know them, right?” Moe asked.

Herman nodded. He didn’t know them well, but he’d spoken to both of them a couple times before and figured they were okay since they were with Moe.

“We brought beer,” Carl said enticingly. 

“Yup, ten different kinds of Duff!” Lenny held up a variety of beers, including Duff Lite, Duff Extra Dark and Raspberry Citrus Duff.

“Come in.” Herman said. Stress was beginning to gnaw at him. He’d need one of those beers very soon.

“Cool. I’ll set up in the corner there. When you want a drink, come see me and I’ll hook you up.” Moe said. He lugged one of the coolers in behind him and the door closed.

Less than ten seconds after it clicked shut, there was another series of raps on the door. Calm and collected but carrying a hint of malice, they were the knocks of a man who knew he’d get in no matter what. Everyone in the bunker froze in their tracks and nervously peered at the door.

Herman tensed up. He _definitely_ needed a drink now. More company. Judging from the ominous sound of the knocking, he couldn’t ignore these particular guests unless he wanted his other arm to get ripped off. As much as he didn’t want to, he opened the door.

Fat Tony, don of the Springfield mafia, stared back at him. He was accompanied by Louie, Legs and Johnny Tightlips. With their arrival, the situation had gone from a mere annoyance that might call for a few warning shots at best to an actual threat. Turning them away wouldn’t end well. While Herman had more guns than they did, resistance was futile. In the scenario of one guy with a gun versus four guys with guns, the lone guy would get fucked.

“Good afternoon. A little birdie told me you’re offering shelter to the people of Springfield.” Tony began.

Every single person in the bunker turned to look at Moe.

“What the hell are you looking at me for?” he asked irritably. “It wasn’t me. This time.”

“My men and I need a place to stay. The Legitimate Businessman’s Social Club is unfortunately not a fit hideout for a crisis like this. The foundation is full of cracks. Those spiders could slip in and we don’t have enough guns to kill them all. But you on the other hand...” Tony clamped his ring clad hand on Herman’s shoulder, “Are loaded. You’ve got more guns than all of us put together. Help us and you’ll be compensated _very_ well.”

“Make yourselves at home. The more the merrier.” Herman forced a smile, but died a little on the inside. He couldn’t deal with this. Too many people. Too many. Of course, he wasn’t stupid enough to defy Tony.

The mafiosos ambled in and took note of their surroundings.

“This place is nice. It’s got everything we need...for legitimate business.” Tony said. 

Johnny Tightlips looked around and carefully studied the bunker’s occupants. “Maybe I like it, maybe I don’t.”

Herman needed to lock the door right fucking now. Lock the door, arm the security system, deploy the drones and weld the door shut for extra protection. He shuddered at the thought of anyone else barging their way in and intruding his personal space. All he wanted was to ride out the flesh eating spider threat alone. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about other people eating his food, drinking his alcohol, smoking his cigarettes or stealing his supplies. Now that he was sharing his shelter with twelve other people, one or more of them might prove to be untrustworthy. If necessary, he’d go get his sawed off shotgun or perhaps try to bribe Tony’s guys to turn away anyone else who tried to get inside.

He turned towards the door and recoiled in terror. “Gah!” The cigarette he’d been smoking fell from his mouth.

There was a huge mob of people outside his bunker.

“Oh man, is it really that bad?” a blue haired boy with thick glasses asked. His face was swollen and discolored from an allergic reaction. “I knew people would notice.”

“Don’t be silly, Milhouse. You’re still as handsome as ever.” a blue haired woman, likely the kid’s mother, came to his defense but did a poor job of sounding sincere.

“Hey Milhouse. Come in, there’s all kinds of cool stuff in here!” Bart waved to him.

The people began filing in uninvited. Some of them were grateful and even praised their host with a phony “Bless you, you’re so kind,” but it didn’t matter. The damage was done.

Herman nervously fidgeted. He couldn’t cope with this. Hell must have frozen over, because he was officially the most popular person in Springfield. None of those people gave even a fraction of a fuck about him before, they just wanted the shelter and free supplies. Didn’t any of them have bomb shelters of their own? They couldn’t be trusted. He thought about forcing them all to leave, but he wasn’t enough of an asshole to do it. Getting eaten alive by acidic spiders was a fate he wouldn’t wish on anybody.

Who knew being popular would suck so much?

Maybe he could lock himself in the gun vault. It wasn’t an intelligent plan, but it was the only one that guaranteed he’d be alone.

Before he could even move, the front door swung open again and a man wearing nothing but a grass skirt jumped into the bunker. He whipped out a kazoo with a polka dotted unfurling strip on the end and blew into it.

“Everyone, I command your attention! It is I, sideshow Mel! If we must quarantine, then we must have entertainment! So put your hands together for...Krusty!” he shouted dramatically.

A tired, worn out, and extremely hungover Krusty the clown trudged into the bunker. His fez wearing pet monkey Mr. Teeny was perched on his shoulder. They were both smoking cigars.

“Hey hey...” he gave a pathetically half assed laugh before devolving into a coughing fit. “Shut up, Mel. I don’t pay you to ham it up off camera.”

“You don’t pay me anything, you ungrateful heathen!” Mel retorted.

Krusty gave him the finger. Despite his douchey attitude, all the kids in the bunker were brimming with excitement.

“Yaaaaayyyyy! Krusty!” they cheered.

Herman slammed the door shut and locked it.

“That’s it. No one else gets in. No one!”

He didn’t care if the president of the United States was standing out there. Access was fucking _denied._

There was still a substantial amount of free space to the left of the door, so he backed against the wall and prayed to whatever God might be listening that his unwanted guests would leave him alone. Thankfully Krusty was drawing most of the attention.

The clown stood in the middle of the main area, going through his phone to find jokes appropriate for general audiences. “Yikes, I can’t tell that one. Definitely can’t tell that one. How about...no, that’d be a lawsuit...”

All of the kids and Louie the mobster sat in a half circle in front of him, eyes wide and eagerly awaiting the show.

Milhouse gave Louie the side eye. “Hey...aren’t you a little old for this?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to a ten year old! I like clowns, okay? You got a problem with that?” Louie reached into his jacket and made a show of fondling his gun.

“N-no! No problem, it’s cool!” Milhouse stammered.

If it wasn’t for the dire situation, Herman would have laughed at that, but he wasn’t in the mood. He needed alcohol, stat. He slunk through the crowd, feeling incredibly claustrophobic as he did so. Finally he reached the end of the main area and crept into one of the two back rooms. 

In the span of fifteen minutes, Moe had set up a mock bar made out of cardboard and salvaged materials. The smaller coolers he’d brought were being used as bar stools and a crappy paper banner reading ‘welcome to Moe’s’ was taped to the wall behind him. 

Homer, Lenny and Carl were already drinking and jabbering away about trivial bullshit.

Herman sat one one of the coolers. “I need a drink, Moe. _Right fucking now._ ”

“No problem. One beer, on the house.” Moe fished a bottle of Duff out of the ice, popped off the cap and slid it down.

“Thanks.”

It was a start, but Herman would need more than one drink to feel even remotely okay with what was happening. He’d need _way_ more than one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter I mentioned a room having an alcohol cabinet in it. I've moved it into the vault room, otherwise there wouldn't be anything preventing everybody else from drinking it all, and I want things to escalate for a while before that happens.

At six o clock, the news was turned on and everyone fixated on the tv. 

Heavily botoxed news anchor Kent Brockman appeared on the screen, but he wasn’t in the channel 6 studio. Instead he wore a fancy monogramed robe and there was a very elaborate indoor pool, complete with fountains and a waterslide, visible in the background.

“Good evening, this is the six o clock news. I’m Kent Brockman, reporting to you live from the safety of my multi million dollar mansion.”

A collective groan sounded through the bunker.

One guy was particularly mad. “I’m so glad you’re safe in your five million dollar fortress, Kent! Meanwhile your best writer, me, is packed in like a sardine with a bunch of strangers!”

“Lock your doors and stay inside. The wave of acidic flesh eating spiders has passed through Shelbyville and is on route to Springfield. It’s estimated that they’ll arrive sometime between midnight and three am.” Kent continued. “How long will they stay? It could be five minutes, it could be forever. In the- hold on, I’m receiving news that a Shelbyville citizen was able to snap a picture of one of the spiders and post it to social media moments before he was eaten alive.”

The screen changed to show a furry, fist sized spider with large pincers and lime green rings on its eight appendages. Two rows of bright green eyes glowed above its mouth.

“Agh! Look at the size of that thing!” Marge cringed.

“Hey, it looks kind of like dad!” Bart teased.

“Why you little....” from the bar Homer growled and shook his fist but refrained from putting his hands around his son’s neck. Apparently people in 2020 were excessively soft and would call him a bad parent for that.

The ghastly image of the spider disappeared and was replaced by Kent Brockman.

“As you can see, this threat is very, very real. Yet not everyone thinks so. I’m receiving live streams from non-believers, all of whom think we here at channel six are full of crap. I’ll switch the feed for your entertainment.” Kent said.

The stream showed a scrawny, meth addled guy in a filthy white sleeveless shirt who appeared to be standing outside the Kwik-E Mart.

“There are no spiders, it’s fake news made up by the government!” the guy cried. “They want to keep us scared and in the dark, but I’ll tell you what’s REALLY going on! I’m not afraid to speak the truth! Those fuckers in congress are working with the illuminati! I know because I’m a member of the truth seekers, and together we will-”

Scraggly meth man was cut off as the feed switched. Now it showed a heavyset woman with short bleached blonde hair. She held an oversized triple espresso pumpkin spice latte in one hand.

“Nobody tells me what to do!” she brayed. “You can’t order me to quarantine from a threat that doesn’t even exist! That infringes my God given rights as an American citizen!”

The screen shifted back to Kent. “And there you have it. Even when faced with overwhelming proof, some mentally challenged people choose not to listen. In a few short hours, those same people will be removing themselves from the gene pool in a horrific fashion, and I report that with extreme satisfaction. Stay tuned for more updates.”

Conversation amongst the group was very sparse. The dire reality of the situation was truly sinking into even the most optimistic of people. It didn’t matter if everyone hid, the city would be ravaged, perhaps even destroyed, and some people would die. It was inevitable. The spiders wouldn’t suddenly change their minds and stop attacking. All the people of Springfield could do was wait it out. Somber acceptance swept over the adults in the room.

The kids, however, were bored as fuck. Especially Bart. That wasn’t good. As Homer, Marge and every faculty member of Springfield Elementary could attest, when Bart Simpson was bored pranks, mischief or destruction would soon follow.

He wanted to do something fun but dangerous, and preferably drag his sister and best friend into it.

Lisa was awkwardly explaining to Ralph Wiggum that just because they held hands on the playground didn’t mean they’d get married, and Milhouse swooned upon hearing that.

“So Lisa...now that Ralph is out of the picture, maybe you’ll hold MY hand on the playground.” Milhouse leaned against the wall and rose one thick eyebrow, trying to look suave but coming across as incredibly lame instead. It was the unsexiest thing Lisa had ever seen, and she once saw her aunt Patty wearing a skimpy three sizes too small bikini.

“Ugh.” Lisa didn’t bother giving him a valid response.

Milhouse swooned again and clasped his hands together. “It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no!”

Bart wanted to slap both of them. “Come on you losers, let’s explore. I’m bored.” 

“Bart, mom said we have to stay here.” Lisa said.

“Lisa, would it kill you to be cool for once in your life?” Bart sassed.

“I’m cool!” Lisa protested.

“Oh yeah? Prove it. Open the trapdoor in the backroom and go down there.”

“Fine.”

They headed towards the backroom and Milhouse chased after them. 

“Wait, I’m coming with you!”

Hidden in a little nook kiddy corner to Moe’s improvised bar was a floor hatch. It was set a few centimeters down and framed with black and yellow caution tape so people wouldn’t trip. The hatch would pop open when the red lever on it was pushed down all the way.

In order to get to the hatch, the kids would have to sneak past the adults sitting at the bar. Fortunately Bart was a stealth pro. The dude from Assassin’s Creed had nothing on him. He’d done more sneaking and evading in his ten years than a ninja did in their entire life, so this wouldn’t be a problem. If Lisa or Milhouse got caught, he’d simply put the blame on them. It wasn’t his fault if they were too slow.

Bart studied his obstacle. Three of the five men at the bar weren’t paying the slightest shred of attention to him. Homer, Lenny and Carl were loudly debating what type of donut was the best. Homer liked the pink frosted ones the most, Carl preferred creme filled bismarks and Lenny thought they were both idiots because how could _anybody_ pick those over double chocolate with sprinkles? Moe and Herman had been disqualified from the conversation because Moe admitted to liking maple frosted donuts and Herman said that cinnamon rolls were better than donuts, period. Both of those were deemed unacceptable answers.

Sneaking past them turned out to be easier than Bart thought, and luckily neither Lisa nor Milhouse got caught. The three of them stood in front of the hatch.

“Go ahead Lisa. If you open the hatch, I’ll christian you the coolest sister ever and forbid Milhouse from dating you.” Bart provoked.

Lisa had the hatch open in less than two seconds.

“Aw, damn it.” Milhouse slumped in defeat.

The hatch opened to reveal a four foot by four foot shaft with a steel ladder bolted to one side. It went down for about ten feet.

“After you, awesome little sister.” Bart smiled and beckoned to the hole.

“Alright, here I go.” Lisa lowered herself down and descended the ladder.

She stepped off the ladder and came face to face with a large vault full of firearms. It had an extra-heavy duty silver titanium door and was sealed via electronic keypad. Through the bullet proof glass windows beside the door she saw handguns, shotguns, rifles of both the bolt action and semi-auto variety, machine guns, an Ol’ Painless replica and even a rocket launcher. If that wasn’t enough, there was a fully stocked liquor shelf outside of the vault. It wasn’t locked. Lisa could reach up and grab a bottle of bourbon if she wanted to.

Guns and alcohol weren’t exactly her favorite things, and if the people upstairs found out about the vault, things could get ugly really fast. She had to keep this a secret, but that was only be possible if she could prevent Bart from seeing the vault. She’d lie and say it was a vault of highly educational history books. Adding the word _educational_ to anything was a sure fire way to discourage her brother. All she had to do was-

“Whoa! A rocket launcher! AWESOME!” Bart zoomed over to the vault and pressed his face against the glass.

He’d never seen anything so awe strikingly amazing. Guns were cool enough, but only true badasses got to shoot rocket launchers. After spouting a one liner, of course. One way or another, he was getting his hands on that rocket launcher. For a moment he let himself get wrapped up in a fantasy; he pictured himself as El Barto aiming the rocket at Springfield Elementary and blowing up the building with principle Skinner still inside it. No, that wouldn’t be quite enough. He had to blow up the bullies too. Frankly he was sick of their today we’re your friends tomorrow we’ll beat you up hot and cold routine. He savored the mental image of principle Skinner, Jimbo, Dolph and Kearney tied up together, unable to escape, right before the building collapsed on itself and went up in flames. Oh how sweet it would be.

Lisa sighed and smacked her forehead. Once again, Bart had foiled her plans for a peaceful resolution. Sometimes she didn’t know why she bothered to try.

“Yeah, pretty cool. This is our little secret, okay?” she asked. The chance Bart would agree was microscopically small, but she had to try.

Like always, her words went in one ear and out the other. Defiance flashed across Bart’s face and he smirked. “Hey Lisa, I bet you my allowance that Herman will let me fire that rocket launcher.”

“Really? Inside the shelter?” Lisa wasn’t impressed. “Besides, I bet you my allowance he won’t.”

“You know what? I’m going to go ask him!”

“Bart, no!”

There was no use pleading. Giddy with excitement, Bart raced up the ladder and over to the bar. He didn’t care that he might get in trouble for asking, the opportunity was too good to pass up. 

He sidled up to the bar, planted himself next to Herman and popped the question.

“Will you let me fire that rocket launcher? Please?” he asked and gave his best puppy dog eyes.

Herman choked on his beer. “What did you just say?”

“Come on, man! I’ll be really careful. I promise.”

“How did you find out about that?” More worry, more stress.

Bart shrugged. “Got bored, dared my sister to open the hatch and found your stash.”

“Sssh!” Herman shushed him. “Bart, listen carefully. Do not, I repeat, do not tell anyone about that. Nobody can know.” Most people in Springfield were clueless about gun safety, and even if they weren’t he still wouldn’t trust them to handle his collection. If everyone in the bunker was armed, someone would take a bullet within five minutes and he highly doubted he’d be the one to fire the first shot. No, it would be someone unexpected like Dr. Hibbert or Manjula. Maybe even Maggie Simpson. He couldn’t trust any of them with his guns.

Moe held up his hands. “I heard every word of that, but I won’t tell a soul. I don’t need yours anyway, I brought my own gun.” he briefly flashed his double barrel shotgun before putting it back under the bar. “My best friend here comes with me everywhere.”

Not one to give up easily, Bart turned to Homer and tried the cutesy look again. “Dad, can I have a rocket launcher?”

“Hmmm....” Homer pondered Bart’s question for a minute. “I can’t always be the good guy. Go ask your mother.” 

“She’s going to say no!” Bart whined. He tried to bargain for a few minutes but eventually walked off.

“Hehe. Kids. They get the craziest ideas.” Homer laughed for a moment, took a swig of his beer, then went stone faced and serious. “Can I have the rocket launcher?”

Herman groaned and let his head fall onto the bar. He couldn’t do this. He wouldn’t last through the night. No way. Thanks to Bart, Homer knew about the rocket launcher, and he wouldn’t be able to resist telling Lenny and Carl. In fact, he was telling them right now. Soon they’d all be badgering him about getting to touch the weapon. Other people would overhear and venture into the vault to see it, and they’d want all his other guns too. He was already unwillingly sharing his bunker, food and supplies with everyone, and if they thought they were entitled to his guns as well, he’d be tempted to toss them outside with the acid spitting flesh eating spiders.

As tantalizing as the thought was, he didn’t have it in him to do that. Banning them from his shop would be a better idea. Yes, he decided, if anyone tried to take one of his guns or get inside his vault, he’d ban them from his shop forever. He’d perma-ban them.

Rapidly elevating stress and anxiety chewed away at him. It was making his head hurt. He’d have to watch everyone like a hawk from now on, which meant sleep was out of the question. He drained the rest of his beer in one shot and motioned for another. It was a poor idea and he knew it. He didn’t feel very good. Nausea started worming its way into his gut, and it wasn’t from the alcohol. Sure, the alcohol would make it worse, but he didn’t care. It might even work in his favor.

Unfortunately for everyone else in the bunker, he had a tendency to throw up when he got too nervous or stressed out, and he suspected he was nearing that point. Given how nervous he was already, he had a feeling some poor bastard was going to find out the hard way.

On the plus side, if it happened people would give him a wide berth and leave him alone, which was the only thing he wanted.


	3. Chapter 3

One of the conversations Herman had been dreading came up a little after seven. Lenny and Carl had thankfully kept their mouths shut about the weapon vault, but people had noticed what passed as the bunker’s sleeping quarters. It only had one bed --which he was perched on, keeping a watchful eye over his guests-- and as much as he’d hoped nobody would bring up the subject, they began to chatter among themselves and didn’t bother to include him in the conversation.

“I think we’ve all noticed that there’s only one bed, which means we’ll all have to take turns.” Luann Van Houten announced to the crowd. “So... who gets to sleep with him tonight?”

“Nobody. I’m not sharing.” Herman said flatly. The audacity of these people, discussing who would get to share his bed without actually asking him if it was alright. They simply assumed he’d be cool with it.

“But it’s a queen size bed! It’s big enough for two!” Luann’s husband Kirk pointed an accusatory finger at him.

“None of you asked me if I was okay with it.”

“Oh.” Kirk seemed to consider this. “Are you?”

“No.” 

“No? Why not?”

“Yeah, what gives?” Krusty butted in. 

“Do you expect us to sleep on the floor?” Helen Lovejoy asked, annoyed. “I’ll do no such thing.”

“If anyone gets to sleep beside him, it should be me!” Elizabeth Hoover spoke up.

“Scandalous harlot,” Helen whispered to herself. 

“Shut up, you self righteous bitch! You’re just jealous!” Ms. Hoover shot back.

“I get the bed! He likes me the most.” Moe countered from the bar. “Isn’t that right, Herman? Who’s your favorite bar tender? It’s me, isn’t it? See, I’m the favorite.”

A dozen more people piped up and began arguing amongst themselves as to who would get the honor of claiming half of the bed. Voices raised and fists curled. A fight would break out before long. The crowd had been tense ever since watching the news, and it wouldn’t take much to start a fire at this point.

“Nobody gets to sleep with me!” Herman snapped. He very rarely yelled at people, but his patience with his uninvited guests was just about worn out. “I’m already sharing my bunker, my food and my supplies with you people, isn’t that enough? I just want to be left alone!”

“You don’t have to be so rude,” Kirk crossed his arms in disapproval. 

Herman ignored him. _He_ was being rude? Kirk had to be on crack. If anyone was being rude, it was him. 

Something heavy and smokey moved behind him and he felt the bed depress a few inches.

“Hello, handsome.” a husky female voice addressed him.

An overweight woman with frizzy, triangular shaped hair was lounging on his bed. The hem of her dress rode up, revealing a pair of veiny, unshorn legs.

“I’m Selma Bouvier. You might not remember me, but I remember you. I work at the DMV and renewed your driver’s license last month.” she said.

“That’s nice.” Herman said meekly.

Selma purred and raked her fingernails down his back. “You look like you could use a bed buddy, and I volunteer for the job.” she paused to take a long drag off her cigarette, then coughed wetly into her hand. “I’ve never been with an amputee before, but there’s a first time for everything. Men don’t really need two arms to please a woman anyways, I’m sure you’ll do just fine with the one.”

Herman wilted and cringed away from her touch. No way in hell. He wouldn’t get down and dirty with that grotesque land whale for all the WWII memorabilia in America. 

“I don’t plan on sleeping.” he said.

“Don’t worry. There are plenty of things we could do to pass the time.” Selma said seductively and batted her eyelashes.

Whatever she had in mind, Herman wasn’t down for it. He’d rather get his toes sawed off one by one. His stress and paranoia levels were nearly maxed out, his head hurt, he felt quite sick and the probability of stress vomiting was currently hovering around 80%. His sawed off shotgun was stashed underneath the bed and for a brief moment, he considered getting it out. Though he had no intention of actually shooting anybody, holding and lovingly stroking it would bring him comfort and hopefully make other people not want to be around him. The more unhinged he looked while doing it the better.

Unfortunately, things were about to go from awful yet just barely tolerable to fuck you in the ass with a rusty hole saw terrible in a matter of minutes. Trouble was brewing and would completely boil over within the hour.

It began by the tv.

Fat Tony and his guys had claimed the couch and they were watching Top Chef, outraged at one contestant who had the nerve to call his crappy dish authentic Italian.

“Are you kidding me? He didn’t even use any oregano!” Tony said with disdain. “For shame!”

“I wouldn’t serve that shit at Olive Garden,” Louie said, disgusted.

Homer was sitting between them and thought the dish looked pretty good, but felt it would be unwise to say so. Lisa crouched upon one arm of the sofa and Bart, still angry about being denied access to the rocket launcher, sat in irritable silence at Homer’s feet.

On the screen, Gordon Ramsey tasted the dish and said it was decent.

“I can’t watch anymore.” Tony surrendered the remote and Homer snatched it up.

“Leave it to me. I know a show we can all agree upon--”

“Cobalt Rawhide, canine private investigator,” Marge said robotically.

“Cobalt Rawhide?” Tony asked quizzically.

“Get it? He’s a dog that solves crimes!” Homer said giddily. 

He searched through the various streaming services until he found it and pressed play. The opening credits, showing a German Shepherd wearing a fedora and a tan trench coat, played for three seconds before the feed abruptly stopped.

“Ah!” Homer shrieked in surprise and repeatedly punched the remote’s play button to no avail.

In the middle of the black screen, boxed within a blue square, were those two dreaded, spine tingling words.

_No signal._

Homer blinked slowly and stared at the screen, as if that would restore the connection. “...Okay, don’t panic,” he said. “We can all stream it on our phones.” 

What he saw on his screen filled him with terror. The wi-fi symbol was animated, forever searching for a signal it wouldn’t find. Slowly the horrifying realization struck him.

“Oh my god. There’s no tv or internet.” he said in a surprisingly calm manner.

“Dad, you’re taking this really well. I’m proud of you.” Lisa beamed.

Marge, who was standing behind the couch, smiled and chimed in. “See Homer? It’s not so bad. We shouldn’t be rotting in front of a screen anyway. I know, let’s all get to know each other better. That’ll be fun.”

“Aww,” Homer whined. “But Marge, I want to watch Cobalt Rawhide.”

“You can watch that anytime. This is a special occasion. You’ve got the chance to talk to people you don’t see everyday.” 

“Yeah, because I really want to talk to Milhouse’s dad.” Homer’s voice was thick with sarcasm.

“Hey!” Kirk protested. “For your information, I’m very interesting!”

“Kirk, why must you lie in front of our son?” Luann asked angrily. The two of them had been at each other’s throats for some time now, and the tension between them only grew until they were teetering on the brink of a second divorce.

“There’s no tv and no internet, but there’s still beer. Marge, I’m going to Moe’s.” Homer got up and sauntered over to the bar. “Moe, beer me.”

“Homer, I think you’ve had enough.” Moe said curtly. “I only brought so much beer, we ought to save some for later.”

Homer narrowed his eyes. Moe had never said that to him before, not once in the twenty five years they’d known each other. If he didn’t know better, he’d assume Moe had been infected and poorly replicated by a pod person. Nobody told Homer J. Simpson to stop drinking. 

“Moe, there’s two options here. Either I go crazy from no beer and no tv or you give me a beer and I probably go crazy anyways.” Homer said. “I’m still undecided on that last part.”

“Alright, fine. But this is the last one.” Moe popped open the cooler and plunged his hand into the icy water. The situation was far worse that he feared. He felt only ice cubes, no beer. The ugly truth stared him right in the face: not a single bottle of Duff remained. Even the Pumpkin Spice Duff, a beer than even Barney Gumble shunned, was gone. Moe fished around for thirty more seconds and came back with nothing but a cold numbed hand.

“Uh, Homer, I don’t know how to say this but....” he began, purposely avoiding Homer’s gaze. He didn’t want to deal with the man-child meltdown that was guaranteed to ensue, but he could only hide the truth for so long. “I’m....out of beer.”

Homer gasped. “You mean....”

“Afraid so. Not a drop in the house.”

Homer recoiled as if struck, then howled and collapsed into a defeated heap on the floor. “WHY?! Why has God forsaken me?! What have I done to deserve this? It’s not fair! It’s just not fair!”

Moe backed away uneasily. On a normal day, he could simply boot Homer from his bar and tell him to go home, but this was, by every definition of the word, an abnormal day. Nobody could leave the bunker, they were all trapped together until the acid spitting flesh eating spider threat was gone.

Trapped without tv or alcohol.

_It_ had begun. Homer’s childish temper tantrum provoked others and the crowd grew irritable and panicked. Without tv, internet or alcohol to distract themselves with, they quickly became bored. Arguments over petty things sprouted almost immediately, and a few people were ready to join Homer in the freak out party.

“There’s no beer or tv! What are we going to do?” Lenny asked in a panic.

“We must bombard our host with complaints!” Sideshow Mel shouted theatrically and pointed in Herman’s direction.

“Oh shit.” Herman said quietly. His stress, panic, anxiety, headache and nausea all increased exponentially while his sanity decreased by a hefty forty percent. At this rate he’d be committed to the crazy house before the night was over.

Several pissed off looking people stalked towards him, no doubt expecting him to fix their problems. He wasn’t a fixer. More than anything he wanted to slip away and barricade himself away from them, or perhaps scare them off by whipping out his gun and firing a couple warning shots, but those things required taking action and he wasn’t quick enough. Homer was on him in an instant.

“Tell me you’ve got beer! Where is it? Where?!” Homer grabbed him by the shoulders and violently shook him. “No tv and no beer make Homer go crazy!”

Herman writhed out of his grip only to fall backwards into Selma’s open arms. He’d almost forgotten about her due to Homer’s outburst.

“Screw the internet. How about you and I make our _own_ entertainment.” Selma pulled him into an embrace and her breasts squashed against his back.

Herman shuddered in revulsion and reached his breaking point. His stomach lurched and he realized he was about to throw up. The next person who got in his face would receive a very repulsive surprise, he’d make sure of it.

Kirk, who’d never been any good at reading people’s faces, was the unlucky victim. Everyone else, even Homer, recognized was about to happen and backed off a few feet, but Kirk cluelessly trekked forwards.

“This sucks! We’re all bored and you need to fix it! Fix the tv!” Kirk ordered.

“Back off Kirk,” Herman managed to choke out. He swallowed thickly. The next thing that came out of his mouth wouldn’t be words.

“Don’t tell me what to do! Fix the tv, and do it now!” Kirk had spent his whole life being a doormat and apparently decided now was an excellent time to start being a gigantic douche instead.

Herman retched and a torrent of puke gushed from his mouth Exorcist style, hitting Kirk right in the chest. Kirk shouted in surprise and leaped back, but he wasn’t fast enough to dodge the second wave, which nailed him right above the crotch.

“No, not my sweater! It cost me ten bucks at Try N’ Save!” Kirk shouted in despair.

Luann, who was standing outside the splash zone, looked irritated. “Stop making a scene. You’re embarrassing me.”

“Are you serious? You want me to be calm? He just threw up on me, Luann! He did it on purpose! Oh god, it’s even in my socks!” Kirk cried. _“How is it in my socks?!”_

It wasn’t a complete lie. Herman had been aiming in Kirk’s general direction, but his initial plan was just to puke on his stupid Croc-clad feet a couple times. He hadn’t expected it to come up in such a demonic fashion. He put his head between his knees and copiously vomited all over the floor. Ideally, everyone would flee in disgust and leave him alone. That was all he wanted, but for the hundredth time today, his wish wasn’t granted. He looked up, a lingering string of puke dripping from his mouth. 

Krusty had his phone out, recording the whole thing. “Hey hey! Now THAT was funny!”

Herman groaned. He wasn’t sure if the clown was laughing at him or Kirk, but figured it was probably both. He’d made a tremendous mess and there was puke on his boots, which was unfortunate. He’d just bought them a couple days ago.

Homer’s eyes darted from Herman to the mess on the floor to Kirk and back again. “So, about the beer....”

“I don’t have any, Homer.” It was the truth. The alcohol cabinet downstairs housed several types of hard liquors, but no beer.

It was time for some much needed reassurance. A gun in his hand would make everything better. Herman reached under the bed and withdrew his sawed off shotgun. Merely touching it helped him calm down a bit.

“Don’t worry Henry. I’ll be okay now that I’ve got you.” he said lovingly and caressed the gun. He hoped that sitting there stroking a vomit covered gun and calling it by name made him look unhinged. If that didn't make people back off he didn't know what would.

“You named your gun Henry?” Homer asked. He wasn’t too creative with firearm names, he’d bestowed his own guns as Mr. Blasty, Gunner and Shooty McShooterson.

Before Herman could answer, a terrified scream ripped through the air. 

“GET DOWN! HE HAS A GUN!” Helen shouted in horror.

However, she wasn’t referring to Herman. Fat Tony and his guys had their guns out, but not for nefarious perposes. They had disassembled their guns and were cleaning the parts with a delicate, devoted touch.

“Untwist your panties, lady.” Legs barked. “You clearly don’t understand the importance of firearm maintenance.”

Krusty was still recording. “Oh man! This just gets better and better! Who needs writers when you’ve got this?”

Uncomfortable laughter echoed through the crowd. For the time being there was peace, as fragile and unstable as it may be, but it wouldn’t last long. It would only take one tiny thing for chaos to break out. If someone sneezed, farted or told one more lame joke to lighten the mood a riot would start. Bloodshed would soon follow.

Predictably, the camel’s back was broken a minute later by none other than Homer Simpson.

There was a bright red button on the wall near the door. A small white sign with the word ‘purge’ on it was mounted above it, and a paper hand written sign reading ‘DO NOT TOUCH’ was taped underneath it.

Homer stroked his chin and rose a brow as if he was deep in thought. “Huh. Never noticed this before. Hey Herman, what does this do?”

Oh _fuck_. The purge button. Herman panicked. If there was one thing in the bunker that shouldn’t ever be tampered with, that was it. He should’ve hid it behind a picture frame when he still had the opportunity. How could he have been so stupid?

“Homer, no! Don’t touch that!” Herman squawked. Fueled by fear, he shot up and zoomed over to Homer, but it was too late.

Homer pressed the button.

A section of the wall just behind the food and supply shelves slid down, revealing four rows of carbide coated nozzles. Blue and orange flames shot out, igniting all the food, bottled water and medical supplies. They began to blacken and char, and the rising smoke set off the detector, which set off the sprinkler system. Water rained down from the spigots, drenching the already ruined food and supplies.

Homer paled. He’d fucked up big time. In a soft, apologetic voice, he said the only thing that came to his mind.

_“....D’oh....”_


End file.
